It’s mine and Mr Norman’s tenth wedding anniversary in a few weeks and for all those who have no idea who my husband is, he’s an author (of several non-fiction books). In a few months he has another tome coming out which you will no doubt be hearing about soon enough.
Basically, he writes.
We both do.
The best support a fledgling novelist like me can have is from someone who’s been treading the publishing boards a long time. This is handy:
I’m impatient for news on novel 1, he counsels to concentrate on no.2 (which I’m now a third of the way through – still no news).
I’m fed up of waiting; my book has been out with major publishers for six weeks now. He smirks. That’s nothing. Read: don’t bother me with your six weeks schtick.
My stuff’s shit. It’s boring. I can’t write. He says everyone feels like that; it’s when you don’t feel like that you need to worry.
It’s been a tough three years for us, but thanks to him, it’s also been the best of times too.
It’s been great; the next ten years will be greater.